


It's A Hell of A Heaven

by LayALioness



Series: I Hope This Song Will Guide You Home [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Band Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-18 23:02:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4723547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He goes back the next week. He tells himself it’s to keep an eye on that barista around his sister, but really it’s for Clarke.</p><p>Bellamy meets Clarke at an open mic night, and they sort of start a band.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY so I was totally going to finish this first and then post it but then I was like nah and decided to post it by chapter, because if you guys don't nag me incessantly, it will never get done. 
> 
> So basically, nag me, is what I'm saying.
> 
> Title from Thin Blue Flame by Josh Ritter, which was the song my dad suggested when I vaguely said 'I'm doing song prompts.' He doesn't know what fanfiction is, and as far as he's concerned, this has been a valuable use of my time.

Bellamy only goes to the open-mic night because Octavia goads him into it—which is really the only reason he ever leaves the house, these days.

“Bell, there are going to be boys there,” she says, somber and serious, and Bellamy glances up from his book.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says mildly, but he’s standing up anyway, and she shoots him a grin. “You’re buying my coffee.”

“You’re sitting through the whole set and then driving me home,” she calls back, and grabs the keys before he can. She rolls his eyes at his frown. “I’m never gonna get any better if you never let me drive,” she huffs, and slides behind the wheel before he can argue.

They only almost get in _two_ accidents on the way, which is less than usual, so he counts it a victory.

Ark is a moderately sized city, which means main street has coffee shops at every turn, all competing with each other with cheaper prices and flashier gimmicks. Open Mic Night at The Dropship is just one in a series of these, and Bellamy hates them all.

Octavia would say he hates most things, and she wouldn’t even be that far off. He _does_ hate most things. Things suck, just as a sort of general rule.

“The Dropship’s a stupid name for a coffee shop,” he grumbles as they walk inside, and Octavia gives him a look like she’s disappointed in everything about him. He’s used to that look.

“Here’s a ten,” she says, slipping a crumpled dollar bill from her bra, he’s pretty sure, and he debates not even touching it. “Get yourself something nice. I’m gonna go wait for my turn. Try not to somehow embarrass me from across the room.”

“No promises,” he shoots, and heads to the front counter.

The barista is a guy around O’s age, with one of those in-style haircuts, and Bellamy suspects he’s the real reason Octavia wanted to come. Bellamy orders a large black coffee, gives the kid a harsh glare for emphasis, and then picks one of the smaller tables in the back, but close enough to the stage that he can take embarrassing photos of his sister and post them all online. He has his priorities straight.

O goes second, because it’s her first night and the newbies are all nervous at the front of the line. She sings an Avril Lavigne song, with some kid in goggles who he doesn’t recognize playing an acoustic guitar.

There’s a smattering of kind applause after—as there should be, because his sister is the fucking best—and Bellamy whoops and hollers the loudest so she’ll give him her _you’re so annoying it’s actually cute_ glare before skipping down. As promised, she just sits with her friends to wait out the rest of the set, like some sort of comradery, he thinks.

Most of them are kids he recognizes from O’s high school, though only barely. None of her close friends, like Monroe and Fox and Harper, are here. A few of the singers look older, maybe his age and at the local college. Most of them have their own instruments, all acoustic guitars, looking brand new from the store.

Until the last girl, who’s small enough to maybe be a teenager, but serious enough to come off as an adult. Her guitar is a pretty pastel pink, and scuffed around the edges, with Disney stickers lined down the neck. There’s a Mike’s Hard Lemonade wrapper taped to one end, like some poor attempt at evening it out.

She’s blonde, and pretty, in a plain sort of way; worn blue jeans, blue Converse, whit tank top with little stripes down the side. Her blonde hair’s up in a messy French braid, and there are a million braided leather bracelets down her arms. She sits on the stool primly, and readjusts the mic so it’s at her level, shooting a wry grin at the audience over it. Everyone laughs; she’s clearly done this before.

She doesn’t introduce herself, or the song, just launches straight into some Josh Ritter number. Bellamy recognizes it in that _heard it before but just barely_ way. It’s short, and strange, and bittersweet; some love story involving the Cold War. It’s completely at odds with her, and so is her voice. It’s not high and breathy, but meaty and a little deeper than he was expecting, like a young Ani Difranco.

He doesn’t realize any time has actually passed, but suddenly she’s finishing the last chord and smiling out at the crowd shyly as everyone cheers. It’s definitely the loudest response of the night, and she’s earned it. Bellamy claps with the rest while she steps down and packs up her guitar.

He’s still watching her when O sidles up. “She’s awesome, right? That’s Clarke—she comes every Thursday. That’s why they have her play last, so everyone will stay. She’s in my Calculus class.” She makes a face—Octavia _hates_ Calculus—and then waves over at Clarke, where she’s chatting with a group in the corner. She waves back, and Octavia grins back at him. “So, you had fun, right? You totally did; you didn’t even sulk _at all_ for the last half hour.”

She’s being gracious, really. He only stopped sulking for the last song.

Bellamy swings an arm around her and pretends not to notice when she pickpockets him for the keys. “Yeah,” he agrees, glancing back at where Clarke’s sipping from a mug at the counter. “Not a total loss.”

He goes back the next week. He tells himself it’s to keep an eye on that barista around his sister, but really it’s for Clarke. He knows it’s for Clarke. O probably knows it’s for Clarke, even if she isn’t saying anything, which is in itself a minor miracle. She probably doesn’t want to chance that he’ll refuse to go, and she only has her permit, so she can’t drive without him in the car.

She knocks over their neighbor’s trash bin along the way, but it’s better than the time she almost hit the mailman.

He sees Clarke the minute she walks in, just a little bit after him and Octavia. She looks a little frazzled, with hair escaping from her loose braid, and she looks more like the receptionist for a hotel, than some high school student at a coffee shop.

But a few people call out and wave when they see her, and she smiles slow and easy, like she’s relived just _being_ here.

She has the pink guitar again, and tucks her hair behind her ear before playing a Taylor Swift song—one of the old ones, that O used to jump around to as a kid. But instead of the usual Swift twang, Clarke grinds the words out, intense and bluesy, tearing at the metal strings so hard it _has_ to hurt, but she keeps going, not letting up an inch.

There’s a beat of silence after, and then people are up on their feet, whistling like they’re at a real concert, and they’ve just experienced some mind blowing event.

Which, Bellamy thinks, a little dazed, they sort of have.

Clarke takes it all with awkward grace, which is only more endearing, as Bellamy waits for his sister to collect him so they can go home. He’s still staring, probably creepily, and he definitely should not be into some girl he doesn’t even know. Who’s in fucking _high school_ , with his _baby sister_. Nothing about this is okay.

“So, how old is Clarke?” Bellamy hedges on the drive home, because he is completely obvious, and O would have caught on eventually, anyway.

“Hm?” she asks, scrunching her nose at the stop sign she barely pauses for. “Oh, my age. A little older, I think. I’m pretty sure she has a late birthday.” She turns to give him a grin, surprisingly not smug. “Everyone thinks she’s gonna make it big. She’s basically a prodigy.”

“Prodigy might be a little much,” he grumbles, mostly to cover up the fact that he has a fucking _crush_ on a seventeen-year-old. Which is, admittedly, better than if she was a fifteen or sixteen-year-old, but still not ideal.

Octavia just rolls her eyes and sighs hugely. “You don’t have to feel emasculated because you liked her Taylor Swift cover,” she says, and he grins wryly. Liking a Taylor Swift cover is really the least of his problems.

“I don’t feel emasculated,” he says, and he means it. “I liked her cover. I think she’s great. But she’s not, like, the next Mozart, or anything.”

“This coming from the guy who writes Yeats fanfiction,” O scoffs, disgusted.

“It’s not fanfiction,” Bellamy sniffs. “And definitely not about _Yeats_ —Yeats was a whiner.”

He almost doesn’t go the third week, because Octavia has something with the French Club at school—even though she really only joined the French Club hoping they’d manage to swing a school-sanctioned trip to Paris—but then he nearly falls asleep writing that week’s article, and decides he should really have coffee if he plans on finishing it that night.

And since he doesn’t feel like making coffee at home, the only logical thing to do would be to buy some at The Dropship.

And drinking any beverage while driving is illegal in their county, so clearly he has to sit and drink it in the shop.

By the time Clarke sings, he’s on his third cup of coffee. She does something new, and not at all contemporary. It’s some sort of folk song, he’s pretty sure—something about a coal train, and a man named Peabody. There’s a pretty intricate guitar solo halfway through, that he thinks might be her own work, but is impressive either way.

He’s finishing up the last of his drink when she settles down in the chair beside him. “So are you trying to get up the nerve to sing, or do you just have nothing better to do on Thursdays?” she asks, relaxed and casual, like this is a completely ordinary thing to do. Bellamy stares at her.

“Maybe I just really like the coffee,” he says, shaking his cup at her, and she grins a little.

“You only come on Open Mic Nights,” she says, gently, like she’s afraid she’ll scare him off. “I’m here every day after school,” she explains. “Or, most days at least.”

“Tracking my whereabouts?” he asks, mostly to hide his embarrassment at being so easily found out. But she flushes prettily, so he thinks he’s gotten away with it.

“You’re noticeable,” she fidgets. “And you’re always here with Octavia.”

“She’s my sister,” he shrugs, and Clarke rolls her eyes.

“I _know_. She has a picture of you, and it got passed around the girl’s locker room for a while.” She shrugs back, as if to say _what can you do?_ and Bellamy shifts uncomfortably, not really sure how to feel about a bunch of teenage girls ogling him.

“You’re in her Calculus class,” he blurts stupidly, and she gives him an odd look.

“Yeah. I’m surprised she noticed, between falling asleep, and drawing dicks on Jasper’s face when _he_ falls asleep.”

Bellamy frowns, equally annoyed with both mental images. He really does wish his sister would pay more attention in class.

“Relax,” Clarke says, amused. “She does really well on the tests.” At his look of confusion, she shrugs. “We have seminar together. We talk.”

“About?” he hedges, teasing mostly. He’s sure there’s a some Girl Code for this sort of thing— _Rule Number 12; cannot tell overprotective older brother about personal conversations_ —or something.

“You, mostly,” Clarke says, surprising him. She grins a little slyly. “She totally thinks you’re cockblocking her and Atom.” At his dark—and slightly bewildered—frown, she gestures towards the cash register. “The barista. You make him too nervous to actually hit on her.”

Bellamy glowers over at the boy. “Good,” he mutters, and Clarke laughs, propping both feet up on the chair across from them.

“So why do you come on Mic Nights? _Really_ ,” she pesters.

“I like music,” Bellamy says, purposefully vague, and she beams, bright and pretty. Then, because he doesn’t even really know any of the other performers’ names, let alone what they play each time—and anyway, she _knows_ she’s good; other people come to see her, too—he adds, “Mostly you.”

“Oh, good,” Clarke chirps. “I was hoping, but I didn’t want to assume.”

Bellamy barks out a laugh. “Modest, much?”

Clarke shrugs. “I know what I’m good at.” She eyes him a little. “You should buy me a drink.”

Bellamy eyes her back, brow raised. She’s a lot less reserved than he’d expected, from the shy way she handles the stage. It somehow makes him like her _more_ , which just seems unfair. “You’re a little young for a beer,” he says, dry, and she looks at him like he’s an idiot. Which, to be fair…

“We’re in a coffee shop,” she says. “I meant a coffee.”

Bellamy just shrugs back, like he’d known that all along, and stands. “If you don’t order it yourself, I’m picking the most disgusting thing on the menu,” he warns, and she grins wickedly.

“Bring it on.”

He orders her something called a Peanut Butter Mint Mocha Explosion, and to his horror, she drinks it all immediately. “Wow, I thought you were gonna pick something _bad_ ,” she teases, and he glares at the empty cup.

“That drink was a crime,” he declares, “And that makes you a criminal.”

“Delinquent,” she corrects, waggling both eyebrows. “I’m only seventeen, remember?” She’s teasing, but it does make him blanch on the inside, because—she’s only _seventeen_ , and in _high school_ , and he’s flirting with her, like one of those gross To Catch A Predator guys.

“God, and I thought you were _cool_ ,” he scoffs, and she smiles, delighted.

“You thought I was cool?” she says, not really asking at all. “Was it the stickers?”

“Definitely,” he agrees. “And the shoes,” he taps her sneaker with his boot for emphasis. Not at all because he wants to touch her. He has more self-respect. He has more respect, for _her_.

“Don’t you have some grown-up job to do, or something?” she asks, blushing again. It’s been easy to forget, so far, how _young_ she is, but with her cheeks all pink she looks her age.

“Eh, I write boring articles on ancient poetry,” he shrugs. “I can take a night or two off.”

Bellamy’s used to his job being sort of looked over. Like most things that have to do with old literature, it’s seen as boring. It even sounds boring to _him_. He mostly just mentions it when specifically asked, and then lets it go, because no one ever wants to actually hear him rant about _Aeneid_ for three hours.

But Clarke actually looks _interested_ , like talking about old poems for a living is _fun_. “Really?” she asks, excited. “Is it, like, an online thing, or a mail-order magazine? Do you ever write your own?”

“Uh,” Bellamy pauses, a little thrown. “My own poetry?” She nods, and he rubs his neck, going red. He wrote a lot in college, but it was all pretty angry, angsty stuff about his mom, with some seriously dry death allegories thrown in. He doesn’t like to think about it. “Sometimes. Mostly it’s just essay stuff on Ovid, or _Leaves of Grass_.”

“That’s awesome,” Clarke says, with feeling, and he can’t help grinning back, a little fond. Octavia was right; she’s great.

“So what do you do, when you’re not busy becoming the next Taylor Swift?” he teases, and she shoves him in the arm. She squeezes there a little, he thinks. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t imagine it.

“School, mostly,” she sighs. “I’m taking a bunch of pre-req’s down at the community college. And I work part-time at my god dad’s law firm,” she adds, and Bellamy stares at her.

“Jesus,” he shakes his head. “When do you _sleep_?”

“I don’t,” Clarke says breezily. “I stay awake through a combination of constant caffeine and stubborn willpower.”

“I actually do not doubt that,” Bellamy laughs, a little awe-struck. How can she be seventeen? It doesn’t seem possible; she’s just so, _together_.

If he _was_ one of those To Catch A Predator Guys, this is when he’d be arguing that she’s _mature for her age_ , or something equally absurd. So he doesn’t.

“I should probably go, let you get back to making the rest of us look lazy and unfulfilled,” he suggests, standing.

“ _Someone_ has to do it,” she agrees, scooping up her guitar case. The handle is worn and the whole thing looks pretty heavy, and he bites down the urge to offer to carry it for her.

“Have fun ruling the world,” he offers in place of goodbye, standing awkward at the door. He’d offer her a ride, but he doesn’t really trust himself.

“Always do,” Clarke says cheerfully, rocking back on her heels. “See you next week?” She looks shy and hopeful, and _cute_ , and he should definitely say no.

“Of course,” he nods, and slides into his car. He waits until she’s out of sight before he leans his head against the steering wheel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY so this is definitely gonna be a slow-burn, so look forward to that I guess.   
> Also I have no idea how often I'll update this, but I'm gonna shoot for every few days at least. As of now, I do plan on finishing it, I swear!

He goes back the next day, as promised, because he is weak.

Bellamy plans to just order a cup of coffee and sit in the back, maybe work on the article he should have finished yesterday, and wait for Clarke in the most not-obvious way he can manage. But when he gets to The Dropship, he finds his little sister draped over the front counter, very _clearly_ showing off some cleavage to that fucking barista.

“You said you were studying,” he accuses, angling himself in front of her. The barista, to his credit, looks appropriately embarrassed and ready to die.

Octavia glares back at Bellamy. “I am,” she argues, waving a hand in the general direction of a nearby table covered in textbooks. “ _You_ said you were working!”

“I am,” Bellamy echoes, raising a brow. “You said you were studying _at the library_.”

O shifts a little, refusing to feel bad. “They don’t have coffee,” she shrugs, and then narrows her eyes. “Why are _you_ here?”

“I like coffee too,” he shrugs back, and she gives him her most unimpressed look.

Clarke chooses that moment to walk in, of course, and Bellamy glances over at her without meaning to, with Octavia following his gaze.

It doesn’t help that when she sees him, Clarke lights up, all wide smile and pretty pink blush. Octavia makes a noise of understanding.

“Typical,” she shakes her head at him, as Clarke makes her way over.

“Hey, Octavia,” she says with a small grin, and O smirks back at her.

“I guess I don’t have to introduce you guys,” she says, smug, nodding to Bellamy. He tries to elbow her unnoticeably.

The whole thing makes him feel like he’s back in high school, except he’s _not_ , and they _are_ , which means he’s probably a creep. If some twenty-three year old guy was hanging around his sister, he’d kick his ass.

“No, we’ve met,” Clarke chirps, and she seems genuinely happy about it, like she _wants_ to spend her time off, drinking overpriced coffee with him in some kitschy café.

Which is what they do for the next two hours. She tells him about her classes at the college, while he tells her which professors to avoid and which courses aren’t really necessary—he’d gone to night school while O was in junior high, working days as a janitor so he could keep an eye on her. He’d managed to graduate in just a year and a half, and then get his BA online in nine months.

“ _Nine months_?” Clarke echoes, clearly impressed. He tries not to like it too much.

“Yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck. No one really asks him about this stuff, so he still doesn’t really know how to talk about it. “Our mom died right before my high school graduation, so I had to take care of O, and jobs with benefits pay more, but they all look for college education. We were on food stamps for a while, so I was in kind of a rush.”

“My dad died when I was thirteen,” Clarke says, nonchalant. “So I know how sucky that is, but—I can’t even imagine having to take care of a kid at eighteen. I can barely take care of myself.” She smiles a little self-deprecatingly, and it’s cute, but he frowns anyway.

“You seem to be doing a great job of it,” he says, honest, and she ducks her head with a smile.

At some point, she brings out a notebook while he’s working on his article, and he glances over to see her writing what looks like sheet music in purple glitter ink. It looks complex, but he never learned to read music, so he can’t actually tell.

“Are you writing a song?” he asks, because he can’t seem to help himself. He wants to know everything about her.

She glances up, surprised, clearly having forgotten he was there. She maybe forgot where she was altogether, and the thought makes him grin. “Oh, uh. Yeah—well, kind of.” She makes a face. “Lyrics give me trouble.”

“But that’s the easy part,” he teases, and she marks a long streak of purple glitter down his arm.

“Not all of us are fancy literary poets,” she says, and he flushes a little.

“I’m hardly a poet,” he grumbles, but he’s stuck on the music again, staring at the little notes and squiggly lines that he can’t understand.

“Can you read it?” she asks, curious, and he shakes his head. “You can read _Latin_ , but not sheet music?”

“Latin’s easier than people think,” he huffs, and points to one of the bigger squiggles. “What’s that mean?”

Clarke snorts. “It’s a treble clef,” she explains. “It indicates pitch, and lets the musician know this music is for the piano, violin or guitar.” She draws something that looks like a C with a semicolon, up at the top of the page. “This is a bass clef,” she says. “It’s for the bass guitar, upright bass, and cello. Obviously, there are other instruments for each, and they apply to singing, too—treble for sopranos and altos, bass for baritones and bass’s.” She glances up, a little embarrassed. “Boring, right?”

Bellamy shakes his head—to be honest, she’d spoken about musical symbols the way he sometimes spoke about his favorite writers; completely and totally engaged. It was surprising, and more than a little cool. “It’s not just a hobby,” he guesses, and she worries her lip before shaking her head.

“My dad got me into the guitar,” she says softly. “He was a big Led Zeppelin fan.”

“He’s why you play?”

Clarke hesitates, like she’s trying to decide how to put her thoughts into words. There’s a wrinkle between her eyebrows that he wants to smooth away, so he grips his coffee cup instead. “Not completely,” she decides. “Not anymore. He bought me the guitar, and pushed me in the right direction, but I love it,” she shrugs. “I’d love it whether or not he was still alive.”

Bellamy leans back in his chair, so they’re not _quite_ so close together. He still wants to kiss her, but at least now it’ll be a little harder to. “Is that what you want to do?” he wonders. “Professionally?”

Clarke makes a face again, and he tries and fails not to grin. “My mom says hardly anyone ever makes it as a musician,” she says, but not at all like she believes it.

Bellamy shrugs. “Some do,” he points out, and she smiles into her coffee.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “So did you always want to write boring essays for money?” she teases, and he nudges her leg under the table.

“Have you always been a brat?” he shoots, and she cackles.

“It’s a recent development.”

They go back to their respective writing, and Bellamy doesn’t realize another hour has passed until Octavia thumps him on the head with her textbook.

“Come on, loser, I’m driving us home,” she declares, tossing a _bye, Clarke!_ on her way out the door.

Bellamy rolls his eyes, but stands anyway, and Clarke stuffs her notebook back in her bag. He’s prepared for the awkward _okay see you later?_ routine, but Clarke just reaches over to squeeze his wrist a little, beaming up at him.

“Same time next week?” she asks, and there’s no possible way to say no.

Octavia smirks the whole way home, mostly because she’s had _hours_ of uninterrupted flirting and has probably gotten the barista to fall in love with her by now.

“I can’t _believe_ you have a crush on Clarke Griffin,” she scoffs. “You’re so _predictable_ , Bell!”

Bellamy glowers in the front seat. “Then I guess you should have seen it coming,” he snaps, not bothering to deny it, because really there’s no point. Octavia’s had his number for years, now.

She scoffs again for good measure, but drops it. She’s been appropriately admired by a cute boy all afternoon, she’s at her most gracious.

To Bellamy’s horror, and even worse, his delight, coffee with Clarke Griffin becomes _a thing_.

On one hand, it’s fantastic, because it’s hours of time with Clarke Griffin teasing him about whichever pretentious poem he’s ranting about, while she details the entire life and works of Antoine Marcel Lemoine without realizing it.

On the other, it’s excruciating, because It’s _hours of time with Clarke Griffin_ , rubbing her leg against his when she stands to get a refill, putting a small hand on his shoulder when she arrives to find him nose-deep in a book, smiling at him and laughing and just generally being too lovely for him to take.

And then on Wednesday, she shows up wearing some beige pencil skirt with a black lace pattern down both sides, and a silky button-down shirt he wants to take off with his fucking _teeth_.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says, breathily, like she’s been walking fast so he wouldn’t be kept waiting. It’s endearing, and so is the hair escaping the bun on her head. She slips her heels off the second she sits down, and reaches for his coffee without question. He very much wants to kiss her up against the wall.

He’s definitely a creep.

Octavia seems to have accepted it, albeit with a lot more eye rolling than he’d prefer, but it’s not like he can complain. He’s rolling his eyes at himself, on the inside.

“You’re pathetic,” she declares on the drive home, but Bellamy just grunts, barely listening. He’s still thinking about Clarke in that skirt, with her hair half undone, as the collar of her shirt slipped farther down her shoulder.

He doesn’t disagree with his sister. He is, generally, pathetic. He’s got a fucking schoolboy crush on a teenager, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. He should be past this sort of thing, by now.

Bellamy tries to check his email once a week at least, just in case there’s something important from work, or the IRS, or one of those publishers he sometimes sends his own work to. Tonight there’s a message from a sender he doesn’t recognize, and he almost sends it to the spam folder without reading, but the subject line catches his eye.

From: [lessmiserable@gmail.com](mailto:lessmiserable@gmail.com)

CC: You write bad poetry about “finding yourself” don’t you?

He grins because he can’t help it, and clicks _open_.

_I promise I only googled you for like 30 seconds before I found this, so it doesn’t count as stalking. I didn’t even search your name on Facebook._

He writes back, _Probably a good idea, since I don’t actually have one._ She responds immediately.

_Who doesn’t have a Facebook seriously Bellamy it’s 2015. How do you expect to find out when people your age get married and have kids and make you look bad?_

_I just generally assume I look bad at all times,_ he sends.

 _Liar. You have too many muscles to_ not _be vain. God, you probably read massive books of poetry at the gym, you nerd. Also your hair does that thing which means you actively style it._

 _You seem to be paying an awful lot of attention to my appearance_. He tries not to think about what that might mean.

 _I’m observant,_ she says, and he’s not sure if that’s worse than her admitting that she’s been checking him out.

Then she ruins it by sending _Plus you’re nice to look at_ , which he stares at for a good ten minutes, not really sure what to say.

Anything more than a general _thanks_ would sound like a come on, and he’s not actually sure that it wouldn’t be. It’s a lot harder, convincing himself not to think about her, when he knows she thinks about him, too.

God, he _is_ one of those To Catch A Predator Guys. He is going to Hell. He’d sort of already known that part, but he’d always assumed it’d be for something like that time he was in a pseudo-gang in high school and went around hustling money from the younger kids. He’d always thought he had _standards_.

 _I try_ , he types and clicks _send_ before he can rethink it.

_See, I knew it. Also it’s ridiculous that I have to settle for gmail to contact you. Here’s my number. Expect lots of inappropriate emoji’s and unnecessary cat videos. You’ve been warned._

And so that’s how he gets Clarke Griffin’s phone number. He saves it under NEXT T-SWIFT and texts her a cactus icon, because he figures it’s interesting enough without being euphemistic.

He might be over analyzing things.

But she texts him a dick, so.

He’s sitting at The Dropship the next day, drinking an Americano and sifting through some Robert Frost because it’s easy to read when he doesn’t feel like focusing, when he gets the text.

NEXT T-SWIFT: Dog-sitting at my house, sorry

Bellamy frowns, unreasonably disappointed. He’s seen her almost every day for the past two weeks; taking a break would probably do them both some good.

BELLAMY: Don’t worry about it. I’ll drink some terrible sugary drink in your memory.

NEXT T-SWIFT: I mean, you could

NEXT T-SWIFT: Or you could come over

He leaves beads of sweat across his phone screen as he types, which is both gross and embarrassing.

BELLAMY: Pretty sure your parents wouldn’t appreciate that.

It seems safer, to say no. It’s already hard enough not kissing her in public—he doesn’t want to know what he might do if they were alone in a room together, on a couch or— _Jesus Christ_ —on her _bed_.

NEXT T-SWIFT: They’re not here. I’ll text you the address

She does, and he stares at it for probably too long. He should just say he can’t, come up with an excuse or something. Work, or Octavia, or just say it’s inappropriate, him being alone with her at her house. He’s a fucking adult, and she’s seventeen, and he’s like sixty percent sure it’s actually illegal.

NEXT T-SWIFT: I’m working on this essay about Ancient Rome. I’ll let you rant about their trade system.

BELLAMY: I’ll be there in 20.

Octavia’s at the French Club, and is set to get a ride home from Fox, so he just types the address into google maps and heads out.

He’s definitely going to Hell, so he might as well earn it.


	3. Chapter 3

Clarke’s house isn’t really what Bellamy expected. He’d known she was probably well-off—her godfather had his own law office, after all. And she never seemed to mind paying seven dollars for her fancy lattes.

But he’d been expecting a nice two-story Craftsman, in some quaint upper middle class neighborhood.

Instead, the house is more of a mansion, and it sits on Phoenix Row, the richest street in Ark. It plays home to doctors and dentists and that guy that made the first commercial solar panel car. _Something_ Wick, he thinks. He used to speak at Bellamy’s high school.

Bellamy barely has time to feel self-conscious about how his crappy Acura looks in the three-car-wide driveway before the front door opens. Clarke smiles out at him, looking comfortable and perfect in a pair of soft cotton shorts and a thin sweatshirt with chewed-on drawstrings. She’s wearing long socks with pink and orange stripes.

“You made it,” she chirps, pleased. She doesn’t sound at all surprised. She probably never thought he wouldn’t show.

“Yeah,” he nods, mouth dry. The sweatshirt’s slipped off her shoulder a little, and he can see the pale blue strap of a bra.

He might very well die in this house— _mansion_. It seems like a very real possibility. He’ll die, and then he’ll go to hell for ogling his sister’s teenage friend.

Clarke steps back to let him pass by her through the door. The inside is just as big and expensive-looking as the rest of the place. The floors are _waxed marble_ ; he didn’t even know that was a real thing normal people put in their houses. He debates taking his shoes off—he’s not sure what socks he’s wearing, or if they have holes.

 _Jesus_ , he’s too far gone. He’s worrying about his goddamned _socks_ , and whether or not they’ll embarrass him. He keeps his shoes on.

Clarke, oblivious, pads down the hall and he follows. She leads him into the stomach of the house, an open space sectioned off into living room, dining room, and kitchen, with only a few knee walls in between. The furniture looks stylish and well-made, but not very inviting. Mostly, the whole place looks like one of those HGTV catalogues he sometimes gets in the mail by accident. He keeps a whole stack of them in the bathroom, to flip through when he gets bored.

The most homey thing in the room—aside from Clarke in her sweatshirt—is the old-looking mastiff sprawled out on the floor in a mass of giant wrinkles. It glances up at him, only a little interested, and its tail gives two pathetic _thumps_ in an attempt at wagging.

“That’s D’Artagnan,” Clarke says, and Bellamy glances over to see her unclipping a squirming miniature Dachshund from the table leg. She picks it up, with a little difficulty since it refuses to stop wiggling, and is now desperately licking at her face. “This is Roscoe. Mom doesn’t want him running loose in the house,” she makes a face, and then splutters when Roscoe’s tongue goes up her nose.

Bellamy laughs, crouching down to scratch D’Artagnan’s ear. The old dog groans a little before rolling over so Bellamy can rub his stomach.

“Whose are they?” he asks, grinning when D’Artagnan lets out a huff of annoyance once his hand falls away.

“My god dad’s,” Clarke shrugs, shifting Roscoe over on one hip, like a toddler. A very wiggly toddler, with a very long tongue. “He’s working some important case up in New York.” She sounds proud, but not like she’s bragging about it.

Bellamy stands and glances over at the pile of textbooks and note cards sprawled out over the table. “So what’s this I hear about an essay on Ancient Rome?”

Clarke rolls her eyes and sets Roscoe down. He immediately runs over to sniff Bellamy’s leg, and then hump it a little. “You’re so easy,” she teases, sounding fond. She goes to sit back by her schoolwork, and Bellamy nudges the little dog away with his foot before following.

She scoots her history book over to him, and waves a hand. _“Go on,” she grins._ “I know you’re just dying to wax poetic on the wonders of Cicero.”

Bellamy blushes, which is ridiculous since she’s so _clearly_ joking. He clears his throat to cover it up, and levels her with a heavy stare. “We’ll start with Ovid,” he says. “Work our way up.”

It turns out Clarke knows a lot more about the subject than he’d thought she would, and the essay itself is already almost finished. “You took a while to get here,” she shrugs, and then perfectly translates a piece of Latin text.

 _She’s seventeen_ , he tells himself. _You cannot jump her in this giant mansion_. Roscoe picks that moment to start licking his ankle, which is gross enough to ruin the mood. Bellamy reaches down to pat his head, and gets his hand slicked with drool for his trouble.

“Now that that’s over,” Clarke piles up her school books and papers and sets them aside, before crossing the room to fetch her guitar case. From this angle, he can see the side that’s usually hidden onstage. PRINCESS CLARKE is written there in big, block letters, and he grins.

“Are you going to serenade me?” he asks, delighted in spite of himself. He likes to think it’s not just because of his ridiculous crush; Clarke’s a fantastic musician, and he’d want to hear her play regardless.

“Maybe later,” she smiles, and then sets her guitar in his lap.

“Uh,” Bellamy stares down at the instrument, carefully handling it, and looks up at her helplessly.

“I’m teaching you,” Clarke shrugs, like it’s obvious, and then disappears. Judging by her footsteps, she’s going upstairs, and it takes everything in him not to follow.

He absolutely does _not_ need to see what her bedroom looks like. That’s a level of creepy he simply refuses to reach.

Bellamy doesn’t actually have that much time to freak out, before Clarke’s back, carrying a larger, more average-looking acoustic guitar in her arms. She pulls her chair close enough to his that their feet bump as she sits, and situates her instrument.

“It was my dad’s,” she explains, and then she’s all business. “Move your hands like mine,” she instructs, reaching over to bend his wrist around the neck of the pink guitar. “There, good. Okay, now these are the srings; E, A, D, G, B, E. Every Adult Dog Growls, Barks, Eats.”

Bellamy laughs, hand going loose on the neck, and Clarke scowls. “Sorry,” he snorts. “ _What?_ ”

“It helps,” she says, adamant, and fixes his arms. “Now repeat it back.”

He’s still grinning, but figures he might as well at least try. She’s sort of the expert, here, and probably knows what she’s doing. “Every dog barks, eats, growls,” he guesses, and she frowns at him.

“See? You didn’t listen,” she accuses, and kicks his shin. The pain’s enough to make him sit up a little straighter, with a wince. “Now again,” she says primly, and they go through the acronym until he has it memorized, and can name all the strings correctly.

She kicks him whenever he gets something wrong, and he’s beginning to think the lesson isn’t worth the bruise he’ll have. But then when he gets it right she beams up at him, bright and happy, and he changes his mind.

“Okay, now we’ll learn chords,” she chirps. He fumbles over the strings, trying to copy her movements, and his fingers start to sting within moments, but it seems that as long as Clarke thinks he’s trying his best, she’ll be patient with him.

Or, as patient as she can be, which doesn’t seem like much. Teacher Clarke is basically a general, barking orders, and frowning a lot.

They only stop when D’Artagnan shuffles over and lays his head on Bellamy’s lap. Clarke blinks down at him, as if just waking up, and glances at the clock on the wall.

“Oh,” she says, surprised, and Bellamy turns to find it’s nearly seven o’clock. They’ve been practicing for three hours.

“I should go,” he decides, setting the guitar gingerly back in its case. “Where’s your mom?” he asks with a frown. He’s not sure what Mrs. Griffin’s job is, but he didn’t think anyone from Phoenix worked after five.

“She works late on Fridays,” Clarke shrugs, and then adds, “Actually, she always works late.” She doesn’t sound that upset about it, but Bellamy still has to fight the urge to invite her over, to eat with him and O.

Dinner at his house together is probably a little much.

Clarke walks him to the door, grinning up at him, and for one terrible second, he thinks she’s going to kiss him.

“Next time, I’ll start teaching you to read music,” she says, and he smiles.

“Next time?”

“Next time,” she confirms, squeezing his elbow a little. “Bye, Bellamy.”

“Bye, princess,” he says, without really meaning to. He’s been thinking about it ever since seeing the guitar case, but he hadn’t actually intended to _call_ her that—it was probably a nickname from her dad, or something, and now he’s gone and used it, which seems a little gross.

Clarke stares up at him, shocked, and he mumbles an apology before walking briskly to his car.

“Bell,” she calls, when he’s got one leg in. He glances up to find her smiling out at him, and feels a rush of relief. “See you tomorrow.”

He nods and rolls out of the drive. He gets pulled over for speeding on the way home.

Bellamy walks in to find Octavia waiting for him. She’s pulled one of the dining chairs into the hall, and is sitting with her arms crossed and a single brow raised. Bellamy rolls his eyes—his sister’s always had a flair for the dramatic.

“And where have _you_ been?” she asks coolly, and he shoves the chair with his foot, so she has to flail a little not to fall over. She glares at him while he walks towards the kitchen.

“Last time I checked, I don’t answer to you,” he calls back, and Octavia jumps up to march after him.

“Fox was disappointed when you weren’t here,” she says, suspiciously innocent. “She wanted to stay for dinner so she could flirt with you.”

Bellamy makes a face, and pulls out some leftover Lo Mein from the fridge. “Tell your friends to stop hitting on me,” he grouses, and she smirks.

“Even Clarke?”

Bellamy feels himself going red, and hopes she doesn’t notice. But she’s looking over at him smugly, so it’s probably a lost cause. “Even Clarke.”

Octavia seems to sober a little, and takes the plate of cold noodles he offers. “It’s okay if you like her, Bell,” she says softly. “Clarke’s, like, basically an adult. And you have the emotional capacity of a twelve-year-old, so.”

“ _Basically_ an adult isn’t the same as being an adult,” he says mildly. It should probably feel weird, talking to his sister about this, but it’s not like he has many friends. His social circle wasn’t that big to begin with, but once he got custody of an eleven year old, it shrunk to non-existent.

“Still,” Octavia shrugs, shoveling in a bite that all rights should not fit in her mouth. Octavia’s jaw defies physics. “She’s seventeen. Sixteen is the age of consent—”

“ _Jesus_ , O,” Bellamy grimaces. “I’m not—that isn’t—look, don’t worry about me and Clarke, alright?” The last thing he wants is his sister thinking he only cares about being able to sleep with her friend without going to jail.

If he just wanted to _sleep_ with Clarke, things would be a lot simpler. But he wants so much more than that. And she’s going to go off to some ivy league in six months, and forget about him within a week.

“Alright,” Octavia agrees, which is suspicious in itself. Octavia _never_ gives up without a fight. She’ll fight over anything. She’ll fight just to fight. “So, we got the Paris trip,” she says, casual.

 _Ah_ , that explains it. Bellamy chokes on his noodles.

Octavia looks at him, unimpressed and defensive, clearly ready for him to tell her she can’t go, and ready to fight him on it.

“That’s great, O,” he says instead, gratified when she stares at him, surprised.

“What’s the catch?” she asks, eyes narrowed, and Bellamy slaps a hand to his chest in mock-agony.

“You wound me,” he smirks, and she tosses a baby corn cob at his face.

That starts a mini food fight that neither of them really win, since they both end up covered in cold Chinese and soy sauce. He’ll be finding cabbage under the cabinets for weeks.

“Seriously,” he says, sobering. “I’m happy for you. It’ll be a really cool experience.” He even means it, mostly. He can’t _completely_ turn off his worrying, but he knows this is something she’s wanted for years, now, and worked hard for, so he has to at least be proud. He swings an arm around her, picking a stray noodle from her hair, and she leans into his side.

“Thanks, Bell,” she grins.

“I want the dates you’ll be gone, and a phone number for every place you’re staying,” he says, and she rolls her eyes.

“And there it is,” she groans, but she’s still smiling a little, so she can’t be _that_ annoyed.

They spend the weekend filling out the paperwork for O’s passport, going back and forth to the library so they can fax it all out. The trip is set for the week after Valentine’s Day, which Bellamy is secretly glad for. He and O have a Valentine’s tradition, where spend the day after gorging themselves on discount chocolate and watching Lifetime Original movies in their pajamas. They get each other stupid cards and cheap gift cards.

Since Bellamy spends Saturday and Sunday driving to and from the library, and Walgreens for the passport photo, and constantly emailing the French teacher Mrs. Kane about visas, and international flight rates, Bellamy doesn’t see Clarke again until Monday.

“My sister’s going to Paris,” he says when she drops into her seat across from him. He ordered her a chocolate croissant, and she attacks it immediately.

“I know,” she teases. “Seminar together, remember?” There’s a smudge of chocolate in the corner of her mouth, that he wants to lick off. “Are you freaking out, yet?”

Bellamy shrugs and makes a so-so gesture with his hand. “Not really.”

She kicks at his ankle. “I call bullshit.”

He makes a face at her. “Seriously—I mean, yeah, I’ll be worried sick pretty much the whole time, but. She really wants this, you know? Plus, Indra’s going as the second chaperone, and she’s basically a pitbull when it comes to protecting those kids, so. At least I know I won’t have to go all Liam Neeson from _Taken_.”

Clarke snorts, which he thinks means he should feel insulted, but mostly it’s cute. “What would you do? Throw _The Iliad_ at their head?”

“Depends. Is it hard cover?”

She laughs, which he feels pretty smug about. By now he’s seen her around a lot of people, mostly other kids her age, and so far none of them make her laugh as much as he does.

He probably shouldn’t read into it.

“I believe you promised to teach me how to make sense of all your weird music squiggles,” he says, and she grins, whipping out a notebook from literally nowhere.

“We’ll start with Zeppelin,” she says, waggling her brows. “Work our way up.”

They lose track of time again, and it’s nearly dark out by the time Clarke starts packing up. He can now successfully tell the difference between _sharp_ and _flat_ notes, and he’s pretty sure he’s got _Hot Cross Buns_ down.

“Hey,” Clarke nudges his leg with her sneaker before standing up. “Give me a ride home.”

Bellamy raises a brow at her—he’s definitely going to, and they both know it, but he can’t help giving her a little shit about it first. “And why would I do that? Gas is expensive, you know.”

“You can think of it as payment for all my sage wisdom,” she grins.

“I didn’t even ask for you to teach me,” he laughs. “You literally just forced your guitar into my hands.”

“You _like_ playing my guitar,” she teases, and he goes red.

“Get in the car, Clarke,” he mutters, and she laughs all the way across the lot.

He drives her home, with her offering haphazard last minute directions, when she isn’t shit talking his meager selection of radio stations.

“Not all of us can afford Sirius XM,” he grouses, but she just shakes her head, clearly disappointed in him.

“But you get _Rush Limbaugh_ ,” she scoffs, disgusted, and he kind of has to agree.

He pulls up to the curb outside her house, even though the driveway’s empty. There aren’t any lights on, but her mom might still be home, and he doesn’t want to chance that. Clarke doesn’t seem to care.

She reaches over and squeezes his wrist, chirping a _thanks!_ before hopping out and heading inside.

Bellamy’s never really been one for casual affection, except for O, but with Clarke it’s really working for him.

He’s pretty sure this is going to be his new normal—coffee dates, and guitar lessons, and lots of touching. He’s still pretty sure it’s gonna kill him in the end, but until then, he’s really looking forward to it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, smut.

Bellamy’s days are filled with Clarke, it seems; it turns out that she actually only has four classes at the local high school, and could easily have graduated within three years, but she didn’t want to go to University at seventeen. The college classes were her mom’s idea, since she was worried about Clarke being idle, but she still tends to finish up with school around two in the afternoon.

He’s not sure when it becomes habit to pick her up from school—she texts him one day from the college, explaining that her ride had to cancel and asking if he could give her a ride to the coffee shop. He’d been neck-deep in Yeats, hating everything about the assignment, so he’d said yes immediately, and then when she offered to buy his boring black coffee, he stayed to hang out with her for an hour.

But then he just didn’t stop, and around one-forty in the afternoon he’d stop whatever he was doing—get dressed and shave if he hadn’t, yet—and head over to her school. He usually brought a book, or whatever poem he was working on, to read while he waited.

Even though it’s early February, the weather’s still warm enough for t-shirts and jeans. Bellamy’s pretty sure the last time it snowed in Ark, he was thirteen, and it was Christmas. He’s waiting for her, parked under some pine trees and flipping through a book of Mary Oliver, when Clarke slides in. She beams over at him, like she always does. And, as usual, he grins helplessly back.

Then she tosses a CD in his lap. It’s in a clear plastic case, and it’s the burnable kind. She’s scrawled _Clarke’s Classics_ in her pretty cursive on one side, and when he flips it over, the other says _Bell’s Beats_. He stares down at it for a long moment, not really sure how to react. _She made him a mix tape_.

When he glances over, she’s looking nervous and adorable, chewing on the skin of her thumb. Her hair’s braided back sloppily today, hanging over one shoulder, and she’s wearing some sort of large fuzzy sweater like a dress, with a pair of furry boots. She looks warm, like a fireplace in winter, and her neck’s growing pink as he takes her in.

“Did you make me a _mix tape_?” he smirks. “What century are you from?”

Clarke huffs, and shoves him a little, but he catches her hand when it falls. “Seriously, thanks,” he says, and wets his lips. He’s pretty sure she knows by now that he doesn’t _do_ this, hasn’t had anything like this. She’s basically his only friend, and there’s no way she could just _not_ know that. He probably doesn’t have to say it. “It means a lot.”

She grins, pleased, and squeezes his hand. “The Clarke ones are my favorites, and the Bell ones are some I think you’ll really like.”

“I’ll probably like all of them,” he shrugs, and she ducks to hide a smile.

This is probably the moment he should make a move, and confess his feelings. Or something. He has some reservations about their first kiss being in the uncomfortable bucket seats of his fucking Acura, but there’s the very good chance that the actual kissing itself will overpower that.

Instead, he says “Dropship?” His voice is a little hoarse, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

Clarke shakes her head. “My place. We need to go over scales again.”

Octavia finds the CD, probably while snooping for speeding tickets. She likes to tape them up on the fridge to passive aggressively let him know that she’s seen them, and she’s judging him accordingly.

So when he walks in to see if there are any forgotten bags of chocolate chips in the freezer, he finds the CD duct taped to the fridge, with a sticky note on top that says _???_ He throws the note away, and puts the disk in the glove box so it doesn’t get lost.

“Are you and Clarke seriously not dating?” she demands, slamming through the door the next day. It’s mid-afternoon, but Clarke’s working at her god dad’s firm, so she postponed their guitar session.

“Clarke and I are seriously not dating,” Bellamy says mildly, not glancing up from his computer. He’s playing Spider Solitaire, but he made the window pretty small so she’ll just see word processor up behind it, and hopefully think he’s working, and leave him alone.

“Bell,” O sighs, and he turns at the tone of her voice. She sounds tired, which is vastly different from her usual mix of annoyed exasperation, when dealing with him. “I get that you’re trying to be the good guy here,” she says, clearly trying to word her thoughts carefully. “But—you spend _every day_ together. You drive her around, and you’re this smart, older guy who’s giving her lots of attention,” she trails off, letting him put the pieces together, and Bellamy frowns.

“We’re friends,” he says, defensive. He’s specifically avoided being _that guy_ , that takes advantage of Clarke’s age and inexperience. Friends give friends rides, and spend time with each other. It’s fucking _hard_ , not holding on a little longer when she touches his hand, or not leaning forward when she’s close enough to kiss, but he’s held out somehow.

Octavia gives him a deeply unimpressed look. “The girl made you a playlist,” she says, and. Well, okay, maybe that’s a little above and beyond the whole _friendship_ level. She seems to soften a little, and relents. “Look, I get it. You really like her, and _clearly_ she’s into you. But either shit or get off the pot, because all of _this_ ,” she makes a vague gesture, “Is just you stringing her along, if you don’t intend to do something.”

She’s clearly expecting him to argue with her—she probably has about ten more solid arguments, followed by whatever punch-hook-punch combinations she’s come up with in her head. He’s bigger than her, but she’s scrappy, and she knows he won’t ever actually hit her, which she uses to her advantage. And, if all else fails, she’ll just bite him.

“You’re right,” he sighs, and O blinks a little, surprised. “But I don’t,” he runs a hand through his hair, aggravated. He doesn’t want to string her along, but he doesn’t want to be _that guy_ , either. And he really, _really_ doesn’t want to give her up.

“You exhaust me,” Octavia rolls her eyes, and strides over to flick him in the forehead, which he probably deserves. “You know I spend time with Clarke, right? We hang out at school, and all she ever talks about is _Bellamy said this,_ or _Bell’s getting really good on the guitar!_ It’s annoying, honestly. It’s like you’re best friends, or something.”

She pauses when his head shoots up, and he can’t swallow the smile. Then she huffs a little, and rolls her eyes. “Okay, so you _are_ best friends, whatever. Figure this out. I don’t want to come back to Europe and find you heartbroken and pathetic.” She’s leaving in two days, and is clearly worried about it, which is why she’s taking it out on him.

“I thought I was already pathetic,” Bellamy teases, and Octavia just shakes her head and turns down the hallway, effectively ending their heart-to-heart.

“ _More_ pathetic, then,” she decides.

“What’s going on with you and the barista?” he calls after her, and she flips him off over her shoulder before disappearing into her room.

The next day is Valentine’s Day, and Octavia spends it going on five different dates. Or he’s assuming it’s five different dates; his sister is very efficient.

The Dropship is having a special Valentine’s Day sale, so he heads over, and finds Clarke sitting at their table already. There’s a coffee sitting by his seat, and he bites back a grin as he heads over. She’s working on another song—still no lyrics, though.

“No hot date?” he teases, sipping at his drink. There’s a hint of cinnamon, which is a pleasant change from his usual dark roast. Clarke smiles over at him.

“He just showed up,” she chirps, nudging his leg with her foot under the table, and laughs when he flushes. He thinks about O’s warning, and clears his throat.

“Clarke,” he starts, helpless, but she just cuts him off.

“I know, we’re friends,” she shrugs and then gives a wry grin. “You’re worried about taking advantage of me, because I’m so young.”

Bellamy stares for a moment. It can _not_ be this easy. “Did Octavia talk to you?”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “No, Bell, but you’re incredibly easy to read.”

He frowns; he knows for a fact, that’s not true. Most people see his grumpiness and just assume he’s an asshole, which. Well, he _is_ an asshole, but that’s not all he is. “No I’m not. You just know me well enough.”

Clarke turns a little pink, and sips her frappe through a straw. It’s bright pink and covered in whipped cream and sprinkles. Clarke, he’s decided, essentially has the taste buds of a four year old. “I dated a guy when I was sixteen and he was eighteen,” she says. “He was a freshman at the college, and we took Biology together.”

“Let me guess; he was a creep?” Bellamy’s pretty sure he knows where this story is headed.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Yes, but not because he was older, or anything. He cheated on me,” she pauses, thinking. “Or maybe with me. It wasn’t very clear.”

“So, a creep, _and_ an asshole,” he muses, and she grins.

“Right. But you don’t have to worry—you’re just an asshole. Not a creep.” She nudges his leg again, and he pushes back. “So, what have you got for me? I know you probably have some obscure love poem memorized, or something.” She’s teasing, but he recites one anyway—partly just to show off, and partly because it’s a _really_ good poem.

“ _I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way._ ” He clears his throat a little, suddenly nervous. Clarke stares back at him, wide-eyed and pink.

“Wow,” she says, and he’s a little gratified by the strain in her voice. “Uh, Okay. Cool.” It’s definitely the most thrown off he’s ever seen her, and he kind of likes it.

“Pablo Neruda,” Bellamy offers, and fidgets. “I’m not,” he pauses, trying to collect his thoughts into some sort of coherency. Mostly, they vary from _I like-like you_ , to _Wanna make out?_ , which is just the opposite of helpful. Finally, he says “I know you’re smart enough, to not be conned by some guy just because of your age.”

“But it bothers you,” she finishes softly, and he nods.

“Yeah,” he admits. “A little. I mean, you’re awesome, but you’re in _high_ school, and I really—I’ll still be here when you turn eighteen.” He reaches over so their fingers brush, but she’s the one who folds them together.

“Yeah?” She looks a little disappointed, but mostly hopeful, and he’s so fucking gone.

“Definitely.”

“Three _months_ ,” she groans, dipping her head to the table. “Fuck, that’s so long.”

“Oh, wow,” he says, serious. “I don’t know if I can wait around _that_ long. I might have to find someone else.”

She glances up to frown at him, and kicks his shin. “Dick,” she says, and he squeezes her hand.

“Three months,” he tells her, and it sounds like a promise.

He drives her home, and she kisses his cheek before stepping out of his car—just a quick press of her lips, barely lasting a second, but it still makes him smile like an idiot.

The next day he spends with his sister, camped out on the couch with chocolate and Netflix. It’s a Saturday, which means Clarke’s working at her god dad’s firm, and she spends the whole shift texting him inappropriate emoji’s and a lot of cat videos. But she did sort of warn him, so he can’t really complain.

He’d bought Octavia a stuffed dog, and when you press its right ear it records whatever you say, and then replays it when you press the left one. He’d recorded himself saying _Don’t do drugs_ very sternly, and Clarke had made fun of him for it. Octavia just rolled her eyes, but she kept it tucked under her arm all day while she snapchatted her horde of followers.

Eventually, his and Clarke’s constant texting prove too much for her, because she makes a big show of leaving the room, to _give him and his girlfriend some privacy_. He appreciates the sentiment, but he’s pretty sure she’s just locking herself in her room so she can skype some boyfriend.

 _My sister thinks we’re adorable_ , he sends, and Clarke texts back immediately with a thumbs up.

_I know. She told me in seminar, like, two months ago. We bonded over you being an idiot._

Then she sends a heart, to let him know she means the _idiot_ affectionately, and he grins.

 _Sounds about right_.

 _Yep. So how do you feel about sexting?_ she texts, and he chokes on nothing.

He drops O off at the high school the next day, because the French Club’s taking a bus to the airport, and she wants to ride with her friends.

“I _live_ with you,” she explains. “I see you enough, as it is.”

He just nods, and hugs her longer than she wants, because he’d seen her stuff the dumb recorder dog in her carry-on that morning. He sees her off in the parking lot, and waits until the bus drives away, and then sits in his car and—to his horror—he _cries_ a little.

 _O just left me for Europe._ He’s just barely sent send, before she texts back; he’s not sure how she does that.

 _Need a drink to drown your sorrows?_ There’s a pause, and then, _A non-alcoholic one, obviously, you nerd._ And finally, _I’ll even spring for cannoli’s, but only if you’re really, REALLY sad._

He texts, _I am the saddest_. _Meet you in 10._

Bellamy spends the next two weeks pretty much caught between being worried sick about and missing his sister, and constantly hanging out with Clarke.

“She’s having fun,” he grumbles, flipping through Octavia’s latest Instagram pictures on his phone. They’re on his couch—Clarke’s recently decided his house his more comfortable than his, and has decided to claim it in some sort of catlike ritual, by spending so much time there that everything smells like her at the end of the day—and she’s working through a problem set for her college Algebra course, with Bellamy’s head on her thigh.

She combs through his hair a little, in absent comfort. “I know; I’ve seen her snapchats.”

“She’s only sent me one,” he grouses. It’d been a picture of the record dog, and she’d doodled a crude frowny face over it and captioned _u better be working and none of this fake working while u play solitaire im onto u_ —which seemed more than a little rude. She hadn’t even said hi, or anything.

Clarke pulls out her phone and thumbs through her screenshots before showing him one. It’s a snapchat from O—the record dog in front of what looks like a plate of room service spaghetti, captioned _have u made out w my bro yet lmk_

Clarke shows him her screenshotted response; Roscoe, in front of a box of uncooked spaghetti, captioned _Working on it ;)_

Bellamy flushes, and she laughs, shutting her textbook. “That’s enough of my education. Time for yours.” He has to sit up for her to reach the guitar cases by her feet, and helps her tug them up into their laps.

He gets up to go to the bathroom halfway through the lesson, and when he comes back out she’s playing a song he doesn’t recognize. It’s good, and she’s humming along with the notes, but isn’t singing any words.

“Is that one of yours?” he asks, and she jumps a little, looking up sheepishly.

“Uh, yeah. It’s the one I’m always working on.” She shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but he can tell she’s proud of it. As she should be; it sounds great.

“Very Alison Krauss,” he says, and she smiles. He’s been listening to _Clarke’s Classics_ pretty much nonstop whenever he drives, and at least half of the songs are by Krauss. He’d had to look her up.

He sits down beside her, and tugs her legs up into his lap. Ever since Valentine’s Day, they’ve been a lot more relaxed about touching. She still kisses him on the cheek every night, and when they watch Netflix he likes to rest his head on her hair.

“Are you ever going to add words?” he asks, and she fidgets a little, but her legs are still in his lap so he catches hold of her ankles.

“I’m not the best at lyrics,” she admits. “They come out forced, and kind of cheesy. They never really sound like something I want to say.”

“What do you want to say?” He digs his thumb into the arch of her right foot, rubbing the sole, and tries not to shudder when she moans.

“Something important,” she shrugs, and then shivers when he moves up to her calf, massaging the muscle there. Her left heel digs into his thigh, so he starts in on that one, too. “There’s this boy I like,” she starts, breath hitching when he finds a particularly sensitive spot. “But—it’s more than that. He’s my best friend,” she groans a little, and this time he can’t hold in the shudder. Her eyes flick up to his, and he can barely see the blue. “I want him,” she sighs, and her eyes won’t let him go. “But I don’t think he wants—”

“Of course he fucking wants you,” Bellamy says, a little harsher than he means to, because it’s getting hard to think. She’s still fidgeting, legs rubbing together, and she’s still giving little sighs and gasps as his hands move on her skin. She’s so fucking responsive it’s insane, and it physically _hurts_ , holding back. “Have you _seen_ yourself? You’re so— _Christ_ ,” he hisses when she keens.

“I was _going to say_ ,” she laughs a little, breathless, and he’s still got his hands on her, but he’s careful to stay below the knee. He doesn’t trust himself to go any higher. “I don’t think he wants to fuck me,” she pauses, looking suddenly nervous. It’s cute, but he squeezes her knee; he doesn’t want her to feel nervous. She has no reason to. “Do you?”

“Clarke, I’ve wanted to fuck you since we first met,” he says, pressing his mouth the skin of her shin. Rationally, he knows this isn’t the first time one of them has kissed the other, but. It feels a little different than just a peck on the cheek. “But you’re seventeen.”

Clarke huffs, which makes him smile. She’s a horny teenager, who wants to get laid. “Fine,” she grumbles. “If you want something done right…”

He glances up to see her hand slipping down into her shorts, and he groans. “Clarke,” he says, helpless, and she grins wickedly. “I don’t…” he can see the movement of her hand through the cotton, and her hips are moving in time now, and his mind goes blank.

“I _have_ done this before,” she laughs, staring right at him. “And I—I’ve thought of you, while I—” She cuts herself off with a moan, and he turns his face against her leg, mouthing at the skin there.

“I think about you too,” he admits, voice sounding rough even to himself, but she seems to get off on it, rubbing her thigh against his cheek. “I think about tasting you,” he goes on, watching as her eyes darken at his words. She reaches over with her free hand, and he grips it, running his tongue over the knuckles. “I think about putting my mouth on your cunt,” he says, and she groans, hooking a leg over his shoulder.

“You’re a tease,” she accuses, but she doesn’t sound all that mad about it.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says, biting the soft flesh of her thigh. He can _smell_ her, this close, and his mouth waters. “Come on, princess.”

“Bell,” she says, voice high and broken. “ _Bell._ ” He runs a hand up her leg and squeezes her hip, and that’s all it takes before she’s shuddering, hips slowing to a low grind as she catches her breath.

She opens her eyes, and stares down at him, lips quirked up. “Your turn,” she says, and he snakes his hand down his pants. She sits up, crooked and almost on his lap, and sucks bruises down his neck, giving soft little noises of appreciation. Her hand settles on his wrist, rubbing at his pulse point, and he gets off in record time.

They lay on the couch after, too warm and hazy to move. He’s not sure who leans in first, but then they’re kissing, slow and messy and perfect. He’s learned that if he strokes the roof of her mouth, she’ll moan deep in her throat, and it’s probably his favorite sound.

It feels like they’ve wasted so much time, _not_ doing this. He could have been kissing her for _months_ , and now that he knows what she feels like, he’s never going to want to stop.

“Your mom,” he says muzzily, pressing his face in her neck. “Will she worry?” She plays with the hair at the base of his neck, and hums noncommittally.

“She sleeps at the hospital most nights,” she says. “Or, she says she does. She doesn’t come home until morning. She won’t notice I’m gone.”

“Is that your way of asking to spend the night?” Bellamy asks, grinning.

“What, you don’t want me to?” Clarke teases, and he presses a kiss to her jaw.

“I’m not letting you leave,” he warns, and she laughs, curling into him.

They move to his bed eventually, eating cereal straight from the box because they’re too lazy for anything else, and then she wiggles up against him until he gives in, and grinds against her until they both tip over the edge.

She’s got him coming in his pants like a fucking horny teenager, and then he remembers that that’s exactly what she is. He still feels sort of creepy, but.

She likes him, and she wants him, and he can only say no to that for so long, because he really wants her, too. He wants anything she’s willing to offer.

He wakes up in the middle of the night with her sprawled on top of him, her legs twisted in his and her hair in his mouth. It’s basically the best thing ever, and he almost doesn’t move, but he _really_ has to pee.

And then he’s too awake to go back to sleep, so he opens up his computer, intending to work on next week’s article, but instead he ends up working on something of his own.

It’s not quite a poem, but it’s almost one. It has the bare bones, and it’s lyrical enough. It takes him a moment to realize he’s written it to the tune of Clarke’s music. He saves it as CLARKE’S SONG, and then goes back to bed, pulling her back against him before falling asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Songs sung (in order):
> 
> Octavia (and Jasper)- "Ordinary" by Avril Lavigne  
> Clarke (first night)- "Temptation of Adam" by Josh Ritter  
> Clarke (second night)- "Picture To Burn" by Taylor Swift  
> Clarke (third night)- "Mr. Peabody's Coal Train" by John Prine


End file.
